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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23725447">The Way It Is</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallowedBeThyAssButt/pseuds/HallowedBeThyAssButt'>HallowedBeThyAssButt</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>M/M</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 22:54:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,694</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23725447</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallowedBeThyAssButt/pseuds/HallowedBeThyAssButt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Two people living two, relatively, everyday lives. The most normal thing in the entire universe. </p><p>The world is wrong.<br/>Their world is wrong. </p><p>Nothing in the history of existence has ever felt less normal.</p><p>Pregnancy, Money laundering, Crossroad demons and a ridiculous amount of Scones. Read at your own risk.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anathema Device &amp; Newton Pulsifer, Anathema Device/Newton Pulsifer, Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Gallery and the Crossroad</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello! This is an idea I had a fair few months ago, and has recently been driving me round the bend. So I'm letting it loose upon the world.<br/>Enjoy.<br/>Sorry.</p><p>CONTENT WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER: Mild horror, blood, pregnancy issues.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Of course, the real wonder of this beautiful piece is where the artist actually got the reference material for llamas in 19th Century Paris..."<br/>
The small, nuclear family gave a rather small, nuclear sound of disgruntlement, and headed off with a general look of disgust. The redheaded man grinned to himself, admiring the painting for himself. It truly was a masterpiece. He wondered who the fan artist was, and what sort of project involved replacing classic pieces with hilarious llama-ridden copies. Whoever it was had imitated the original painter so masterfully that it would have been hard to differentiate against the original. </p><p>Apart from the llamas. </p><p>"Actually, a fair few Parisians would have known about llamas back then," came a voice from behind him. "Heading to America in the war and all that." The owner of the voice came into view, and it was a rather pleasing sight. Smart suit, expensive shoes, designer glasses, haircut more expensive than the average weekly rent. "But that doesn't give you the right to mess with the exhibits." He grasped at the redhead's hand, pulling him discreetly aside, before pressing him, rather /in/discreetly, against the perfectly white wall. Fortunately, nobody but a lone camera saw the display, and it decided it was best to look away. </p><p>A kiss, a squeeze, and a grin, and Haircut pulled away. "I mean it, Tony. You can't be messing with this stuff. I'll lose my job, and I'll make yours a living hell." The grin didn't quite reach those grey eyes. </p><p>The redhead frowned a little. "Wasn't me," he retorted, rather attached to his side of the argument. "Yeah, it's rather funny, but it certainly wasn't me. You think I'd get paint on these hands?" He held up a perfectly manicured, elegant hand, which Haircut took, and pressed kisses to the knuckles.<br/>
"Of course not..." he soothed flatly, shaking his head a little. "Dinner, about seven? I've got another project for you."</p><p>Tony sighed, glancing away towards the sound of interested and bemused visitors on the far side of a wall divider. "Look, I told you. You can find someone else for your little projects. I don't want anything to do with it anymore." His voice was low, hissed, and he pushed away from the wall, making Haircut step back a little. He didn't appreciate being cornered. </p><p>Haircut sighed disapprovingly. "Now, come on." His voice was low too, more dangerous than the other's. "You really think I keep you round here to water the plants?"<br/>
"I think you keep me round here to look at my arse," Tony replied flatly.<br/>
"...That too," the other agreed. "Seven. Our usual. Don't be late." Another brush of his lips to those knuckles, and he left, all beaming smiles, a charismatic customer-facing face. His official face. </p><p>Tony mimicked and mocked him briefly, before clearing his throat, and heading through to pay his attention to the rather impressive assortment of plants that complimented the wonderful collection of paintings in the finest art gallery in the country. Glancing at the llamas as he passed, he stifled the urge to chuckle. That really was good. The fourth this week. Whoever it was had rather more than a touch of genius about them. </p><p>The plants were in perfect condition. He expected nothing less, and they knew it. Customers always commented on the quality of the plants, how they thrived, even in such harshly air-conditioned rooms, with so much unnatural fluorescent light. Truth be told, these plants knew better than to complain, and so they didn't. Tony was pleased with them, and he would have been entirely happy with his position at the gallery, if this was all it entailed. But of course, it wasn't. A glorified janitor's role alone wouldn't have covered the cost of the quality of life he enjoyed, and he knew it. The project they would be discussing tonight... well. It really wasn't up for discussion. It never was. Tony tried not to pay attention to the details, reminding himself that it was only money. Could have been far worse. Could have been murder. Or scalping. Or kidnapping. Or any number of ghastly things that he wouldn't have put past his counterparts. Money was business, he could deal with that. Delivery man, that was him. Though, he liked to tell himself, no janitor or delivery man in the country enjoyed the lifestyle he did. That, in itself, made the risk worthwhile. </p><p>He forgot to water the last plant, but it grew anyway. </p><p> </p><p>---</p><p>"I say, look at this one! That's an odd piece, don't you think? 'Horse Fair'? There isn't a horse in sight!" Newton Pulsifer stood facing the huge canvas of eclectic llamas, suitably confused and passively impressed. He checked his guidebook briefly, adjusting the glasses on his nose. Perhaps he had missed some sort of interactive children's exhibit...</p><p>Anathema eventually joined him, patting him on the arm and trying to forget the slightly sick feeling in her stomach. This did not work, as anyone who has ever felt slightly sick in the stomach will know. "I'm sure that's supposed to be part of the fun of it," she comforted him vaguely, barely glancing at the canvas. She knew what this sick feeling meant. She'd been getting premonitions about it for weeks: premonitions of the moment when, that evening, she would sit on the side of the bathtub in their little cottage, white plastic stick in hand, staring at the double pink line. She sighed. Probably best to wait for it to actually happen before she worried Newt with the news. </p><p>"Can we get coffee?" she asked, trying to think of anything to distract herself. "I think that's probably enough art for one day." Newt had, bless his heart, suggested the gallery as something to 'get them out of the village, get a bit of London culture. Anathema herself wasn't particularly an art gallery sort of girl, and she highly suspected it wasn't Newt's cup of tea either, particularly when he looked so relieved at her suggestion. The pair headed back out into the chilly afternoon, thanking the redheaded member of staff who held the door open for them as he passed. </p><p>---</p><p>"How much?"</p><p>Tony slowly spun the wine glass in his hand, watching the ridiculously expensive merlot swish and sway. He could see Haircut's reflection in the perfectly polished glass. He looked put out. Good. </p><p>"As ever, that's none of your concern." His voice was clipped, a master rather annoyed with his disobedient puppy. </p><p>"It is when people are starting to show interest." Tony huffed, and set down the glass, leaning a little closer across the table. "That copper last month? And that bloody Paper sent that kid sniffing round..."</p><p>"-Pay them no mind," Haircut insisted reassuringly, settling his hands over Tony's on the table. "You're perfectly safe. Nothing to worry about."<br/>
If that were true, Tony mused to himself, then he would have delivered it himself, wouldn't he? Arching a brow, he waited for a response. Haircut sighed.<br/>
"Twelve point five."</p><p>Tony's eyes widened. "Jesus..." he blurted, and the word sizzled oddly on his tongue. "This is getting out of hand, John."</p><p>John shook his head, and sipped his wine. "I've got everything under control."</p><p>Smirking, Tony bit his lip. "And how about me? What's my cut this month?"</p><p>John watched him, gaze firm. "Twenty."<br/>
"Don't make me laugh."<br/>
"...Twenty five."<br/>
"I'll walk away."<br/>
"No you won't."<br/>
"Don't tempt me."</p><p>John huffed. "Thirty." He clearly didn't like Tony getting the better of him. But he liked Tony, and Tony liked getting the better of him, and so he very often did.<br/>
"Thirty two."<br/>
John's lips twitched. "You're impossible."<br/>
"And you love it." Tony beamed a toothy grin as he turned his attention back to his wine. </p><p>A beat passed between them, and the piano player filled the moment from the other side of the room, above the general humdrum of a quiet and classy London restaurant. </p><p>"Are you staying tonight?"</p><p>Tony shrugged, lips still to his glass. It meant yes. It always did. </p><p>---</p><p>On the other side of the world, on the outskirts of a tiny town in a certain western state of the USA, there were two roads. The first was St Anne Street, named after the blessed patron saint of housewives and unmarried women. Andrew Cartman knew that much to be true, as he remembered learning about that in middle school. The other was named Richard Endward Way, named after the founder of their fair town, back in eighteen-hundred-and-something. Andrew remembered learning about him too, in fact, he'd done a project about the guy. Which he'd failed. Never had much of a mind for dates. </p><p>The small and unassuming patch where the two old streets crossed was rarely visited these days. A newer, less reliable but far more convenient road had been built in their stead in the seventies, and it ran overhead, an overpass, leaving the two roads to meet unassumingly below, without the intrusion of visitors or lamplight.<br/>
There were tales about this crossroad. Rumours that an unhappy farmer's wife had tried to meet her lover here to run away with him, but her husband had been waiting with a shotgun. Rumours of shadows, of voices. Andrew tried not to think about it all too much, as he stood shivering, glancing down at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand, with the help of his phone light. Had he said it right? He'd never spoken latin in his life, was it something to do with his accent? He decided to repeat himself.</p><p>"Qui... Qui ubi requiescit invocabo-"</p><p>"-I heard you, pumpkin, I heard you."</p><p>Andrew smelled her before he saw her, his face scrunching a little at the suddenly lingering cloud of tobacco smoke. He held up his phone to peer across the silent road, squinting a little, because that always helps.<br/>
A young woman with long hair and an ancient wooden smoking pipe smiled at him, all charm and promise. "I don't know why you all insist on Latin. We're quite flexible, really. Been around a fair while, we've picked up English just fine."</p><p>Andrew gave a shaky smile, and stepped closer, still shaking, though he no longer felt the cold. "You're younger than I imagined," he said, rather stupidly.<br/>
Her pipe seemed to set off billowing pillows of smoke despite coming nowhere near her lips. Her smile became a little dry. "I'm really not." She huffed, and stepped closer too, stopping when Andrew hasting stumbled back. "So. Fifty thousand, to get the bank off your back," she ticked it off on the fingers of her free hand, "a 'yes' on the upcoming interview, and... what was it? Rover?"<br/>
"Roger," Andrew corrected. "My... my dog. I know it's been three months, but he's got to be out there somewhere..."</p><p>"I understand." She stepped closer again, and this time, he didn't flinch. "And you understand the price."<br/>
Nodding hesitantly, Andrew agreed. "Not exactly a God-fearing man, ma'am. Doesn't mean much to me."<br/>
"Smart boy." The woman finally took a puff of her pipe, and blew the smoke in Andrew's general direction. It hung around him in exactly the way that normal smoke does not. It calmed him. He wasn't sure why. He wasn't sure of anything anymore. </p><p>"I can make all that happen for you," she cooed, voice soothing and warm. "Though... if you wouldn't mind, just a brief amendment. An addition, really. Won't affect you at all, I promise..." </p><p>The smoke whispered things in his ear, things about England and far away towns and cities. He couldn't quite catch the meaning of the words, like the smoke itself, they weren't truly tangible. "S-sure," he agreed, swallowing thickly. </p><p>The woman beamed at him. </p><p>"So... how do we seal this? They always say a kiss in the movies..." </p><p>The beaming face soured a little, but he didn't see it. "As I said, we like to move with the times. A business handshake will do just fine." She reached out her hand, and Andrew, for the first time, noticed something a little odd about her skin. It was unsettlingly pale, and clammy, almost wet. Drowned...</p><p>Then all of a sudden, it wasn't. That is to say, it didn't exist. She didn't exist. </p><p>With a scream that gargled and pierced the icy night air, her smoke enveloped her, becoming more and more solid until it collapsed in on itself, leaving nothing but a disgusting, half-rotten fish at his feet, gasping and flapping around, desperate for water. Andrew yelled, and fumbled back, nearly falling to the ground himself, as a bulky brown boot squashed the fish to a mouldy pulp. The boot belonged to a figure, though beyond that, it was impossible to put any identity to any part of them. Except the voice. The voice spoke with a quality that Andrew couldn't quite describe, and that was because there was no word in the English language to describe it. </p><p>"What did you do?!" he gasped, voice raspy, eyes wide. </p><p>"Saved you from a rather terrible decision," came the voice, as the remains of the fish bubbled and frothed into nothingness under that boot. "Go home, Andrew. And count yourself lucky."</p><p>He stared for a long moment, heart hammering alarmingly in his ears. "But... my deal-"</p><p>"GO!"</p><p>Andrew didn't wait to be told again, scrambling away in the general direction of his quiet little town and his quiet, troubled life. </p><p>The booted figure sighed, and gestured to the darkness under the overpass. "Come on, Roger, there's a good boy." </p><p>A collie ran from the shadows, wagging his tail happily, and followed the figure as it disappeared just like Andrew's future had disappeared before him - sharply, suddenly, and without any trace.</p><p>---</p><p>Anathema Device cradled her swollen belly as she made her way through the darkness of her country cottage. The place seemed oddly unfamiliar, new angles and entire rooms appearing to keep her away from the kitchen, and her salvation. She knew it was there. Whatever it was that could help her, it was there, on the kitchen table. It called to her.<br/>
Her stomach cramped, and the little life in there kicking and complaining as she made her way through the ever-changing maze. It hurt. The kitchen would make everything better, she told herself over and over. Ignoring the trickle of hot liquid down her leg, she clamped her mouth shut against whatever was rising in her throat, and finally, /finally/ she felt the creaky floorboard under her feet that told her she'd made it to the kitchen. </p><p>It was there, shining in the light of the full moon. The book. Her book.</p><p>Agnes Nutter's book.</p><p>Anathema stared.</p><p>"No no no, I locked you away. I locked you in the bank..." Her mind trailed back to that fire in the field, burning away the Further Prophecies, to the extensive interview at the bank which finally led her to be able to get a safe box to keep the original tome...</p><p>Her stomach cramped again, and she screamed, but the sound muffled in the air, barely registering, and certainly not reaching Newt, who was upstairs somewhere, sleeping peacefully.</p><p>Her fingers brushed the cover of the book. It was mutely cold, but the bumps and imperfections were all there, just as she remembered from her lifetime of study. Flipping the pages, she hungrily searched for the answer to her pain. It had to be here. She knew it must be. Each prophecy that she read seemed to sink into the pages or the shadows of the night, leaving vast blank leaves, and, as she neared the end of the book, she grew desperate, sobbing as her search brought her none of the promised solace. Exhausting the entire tome, she slammed it shut again, teeth clenched in frustration. </p><p>As it shut with a dull thud, the book splattered red across her night gown, across her belly, her hair. Gasping, she held out her hands in the moonlight, she cried in horror as she saw, she felt, the warm, thick blood seeping down her fingers.</p><p>"She doesn't belong to you!"</p><p>The voice made her jump, and there, in the kitchen window, face shadowy in the moonlight, was the unmistakable figure of a nun, smiling at her, eyes glued to Anathema's swollen middle. </p><p>"She doesn't belong to you. She doesn't belong to you..."</p><p>The figure moved forwards, towards Anathema, and she stumbled back, slamming against a wall. Her hands came automatically to her stomach, and her heart lurched. No swelling. No baby. She looked down to the flat cover of her bloodstained nightgown, slick and oozing as the blood from the book engulfed her body, her neck, her face, cutting off her screams...</p><p> </p><p>"Hey, hey, hey, come on, it's okay, everything's fine..."</p><p>Newt's voice.</p><p>Anathema opened her eyes, still gasping and sobbing. The lamps were lit, and she found herself sat at the kitchen table, Newt's arms wrapped firmly around her as he tried to rouse her.  There was no nun. There was no book, and, as she checked her nightgown, no blood, and, of course, no baby bump. Why would there be? She was a only a few weeks along, if that...</p><p>Slowly, her heart slowed, and her breathing returned to normal. Newt's tea helped with that. The sound of the kettle did what the sound of a kettle is designed to do - comfort the soul in a unique and incomparable way. </p><p>"Must of been a hell of a nightmare," Newt murmured, setting down a mug on the table.</p><p>"Hell," she agreed drily, taking the mug and holding it to her lips. "That about covers it." She watched the tired man sat opposite her, as he yawned, and took a sip of his own tea.<br/>
She sighed, closing her eyes and enjoying the brief moment of peace before she'd have to deal with whatever would come next, be it anxiety attacks, nosebleeds or fainting fits. </p><p>"Newt... I'm pregnant."</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Everything is Fine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for joining me here, I know this is a weird one. No content warning for this chapter x</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The low, rhythmic pounding from the machine beside her gave Anathema a huge sense of relief. Whatever else was going on inside her messed up head, the baby was alive. It was safe. <br/>"There we are, Ms Device, see? Everything's just as we should expect it. Nice strong heartbeat there, even for so early on." The nurse turned to smile kindly at Anathema. She looked nothing at all like a nun. It was very comforting. "You really have nothing to worry about, dear. Everything is fine."</p><p>Anathema's eyes welled up, and she bit at her lip to stop the tears spilling over. Nodding curtly, she lay back on the bed again, staring up at the ceiling. "Thank you," she said, voice raspy. Newt squeezed her hand. </p><p>"So what comes next, Nurse? What's the plan of action?" It felt right to be asking questions. That's what expectant fathers should do, after all. Be decisive. Ask questions. Be prepared. And that's who he was now - an expectant father. A father. The thought turned him cold. He didn't feel prepared. Maybe he needed to ask more questions. </p><p>"The plan of action," the nurse chuckled as she turned off the machine, cleaning the gel off Anathema's tummy, "is to let your dear one grow a baby. There's no use panicking just yet." She turned back to her desk, and Newt gave Anathema his bravest smile. </p><p>"See? Nothing to be afraid of. Everything is fine," he comforted. </p><p>"That scan only shows us what's happening now. It doesn't tell us what is to come." She huffed, still glaring at the ceiling. "We shouldn't have burned those pages. Agnes would have seen this. She'd know what to do! Stupid, stupid..."</p><p>"Hey, hey," Newt soothed, brushing his thumb over Anathema's hand in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. "Whatever comes next, we'll deal with it. This is our baby. And we will do everything we need to, to keep her safe." She didn't look at him. "Don't listen to your dream. She belongs to you."</p><p>Anathema finally turned to look at him, a small smile twitching on her lips. She squeezed his hand back. "She belongs to both of us."</p><p>She. Definitely a she. Anathema was sure of that. She stood from the bed, a protective hand over the tiniest of bloating on her tummy. The nurse returned, and handed Anathema a handful of pamphlets. "For when the panicking starts."</p><p>---</p><p>Not so far away across the city, Tony sat cross legged, leaning back against one of four particularly famous lions. Listening to the general commotion of London life was comforting, like white noise. He was running over the plan in his mind. Tuesday. He had three days to figure out what the hell he was going to do about this deal. It was all very well John saying it was none of his concern, but it was when Tony was the one getting his hands dirty. Was the comfortable life he was living worth the risk of these increasingly ridiculous exchanges? Twelve point five million. What the hell was Haircut even going to spend that on? </p><p>Tony sighed, and ran a hand back through his hair. There had to be a loophole somewhere. He was good at exploiting loopholes. He just needed to find it. </p><p>Coffee. He definitely needed coffee. </p><p>He vaguely remembered passing a tiny new coffee place on his way over, and decided to give it a try. That white noise of humdrum was becoming less comforting and more irritating by the minute. A little dark corner of a coffee shop would be perfect. Or maybe just a take out...</p><p> </p><p>The shop could not have screamed 'newly opened' any louder if it still had the shiny plastic film on the seats. Yet, at the same time, the dark polished wood and the well-loved and worn seating made it look as though it had been curled away in this corner of the city forever. The smell of strong coffee mixed with the sweet aroma of rich carrot cake and warm shortbread. It was nice. Tony was surprised it wasn't busier. But, then again, it was a Tuesday. </p><p>"One moment, thank you. I mean please. I... just... hold on!"</p><p>A hiss and a high pitched whine emitted from a ridiculously complicated chrome coffee monster behind the counter. Some poor fellow was clearly overwhelmed trying to work out what to do with it. A nozzle screeched in protest at him, and foam frothed everywhere. </p><p>"Oh no! Oh, dear, BEHAVE will you! Blasted contraption!"</p><p>A young woman in an apron came rushing out of the kitchen to deal with the situation. "For the last time, Mr Featherton, please just let me deal with the coffee maker. I'll sort it."<br/>Mr Featherton stepped back with his frothy hands held aloft, allowing the girl to control the flailing machine. The man turned to Tony and smiled, clearly flustered, wiping his hands on a cloth. </p><p>"My deepest apologies. I'm afraid I haven't quite figured that thing out just yet."</p><p>If Tony had been in any other sort of mood, he might have smiled. But, as it happened, his mind was clouded, and he was in A Mood. "I just want an Americano," he huffed, rapping his fingers on the glass counter impatiently. </p><p>Mr Featherton's smile wavered. "Yes. Yes, of course. Patricia will sort that for you, won't you dear?" he asked, glancing back at the barista, who held up a thumbs up sign without looking round. When he turned back to Tony, he was beaming again. "I must say, I do miss the good old days of the simple coffee pot, don't you?" </p><p>Tony despised small talk. He particularly despised small talk with strangers. "Then why open a coffee shop?" he snapped, probably sharper than he'd meant to, given the way the bow-tie-wearing man behind the counter flinched. </p><p>Bow-tie hesitated. "I... well. I-I mainly do it for the cakes," he confessed, his cheeks a little pink. "I do adore baking. And there is nothing better than seeing the happy face of a satisfied customer as they leave with an exquisite brioche or bun." He lifted a rustic tray of the most perfectly crafted scones Tony had ever seen in his life. "Can I tempt you?"</p><p>"I don't do sweets," Tony grumbled, reaching for his coffee cup when Patricia passed it to him. He eyed the man, who was lowering the tray of scones back to its place of honour behind the glass. This was odd. Why was it odd? Something was definitely odd. "...Do I know you from somewhere?" </p><p>Bow-tie frowned a little, looking back at the redhead. "Ah... No, I don't believe so. But then again, there are so many faces in a city such as this. It's why I moved here. Carlisle is such an out-of-the-way place, and I certainly think London is a more suited place for my pastries..." His frown deepened, just briefly, and then that beaming smile was back. "That's four pounds twenty, if you'd be so kind." He held out an expectant hand. </p><p>Tony fumbled in his pocket for a fiver, and pressed it into the owner's hand. Something happened. Not a Great Big Something, but a Something, nonetheless. Tony could only describe it, if he'd been asked, as a spark, or a twitching nerve, something strange that passed through him when his hand touched the other's. Even the lighting agreed, flickering for a brief moment. The cash register popped open. </p><p>"Oh my," Mr Featherton gasped, turning his attention to the cash register, glancing up at the lights. "Patricia, we really need to speak to an electrician. That can't be good..."</p><p>Pulling his sunglasses down over his eyes, Tony left the little shop. That white noise of London seemed oddly loud out here now, so he pulled on his headphones. Queen. Of course. He could never seem to find anything else in his music library, no matter how much he added to it. </p><p>---</p><p>Finally getting the cash register under control, Mr Featherton sighed with relief, and leaned back against the counter. The lights seemed perfectly fine now. Must have been a fluke. </p><p>"You worry too much, Mr Featherton," Patricia scolded him, an affectionate smile on her lips. "The lights will be fine. Everything is fine. Leave the coffee to me, and you do what you do best, and bake one of those amazing lemon drizzles, we're running low."</p><p>Mr Featherton wasn't particularly listening. His mind wandered after that redheaded chap. Perhaps he /had/ seen him somewhere before... He did look rather familiar, in an unhelpfully unspecific sort of way. The poor fellow looked awfully troubled. Hopefully his day would turn around after that coffee. The best coffee in London, and he knew it, even though he couldn't quite work out how to make it himself. </p><p>Snapping his attention back to his assistant, he gave her a rather distracted smile. "Yes, yes of course, you're right. I'll crack on, shall I?"</p><p>Patricia squeezed his arm. "Whatever makes you happy," she hummed.</p><p>Mr Featherton swallowed thickly, and pulled his arm free in a manner he hoped couldn't be misconstrued as impolite. "Yes, well, indeed," he muttered, heading back into his kitchen. </p><p>---</p><p>In the highest reaches of Scotland, the wind railed and screamed around a small brick house, an island amongst sheep fields. A little girl sat huddled in her bed, a blanket over her shoulders for comfort. The rattling at the window and the wailing on the roof made her uneasy. Closing her eyes, she clasped her hands together, and bowed her head. <br/>"Please, Mr God, sir. I would like the wind to stop. It's real scary and I don' want my da to go out in the fields in this... Please. And thank you. Amen."</p><p>The wind continued to roar. The little girl huffed, and snuggled down into her pillows, squeezing her eyes shut. It didn't take long for her to fall into a sleep. Not a peaceful sleep, but what could only be described as a compliant sleep. From the darkest corner of her room, a low glow of warm light spread, not enough to wake her, but enough to engulf her. </p><p>"Sleep, dear child," came a low, confident voice. "We hear your prayer. And we are happy to calm the winds and the storms. We need you to ask for a little more, though..."</p><p>Images swirled through the girl's dreams, of a city far away, and wings of white, and an old bookshop. She stretched out contentedly, and the winds calmed around the little brick house. "Amen," she sighed through her deepening sleep.</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Coffee-est Coffee</h2></a>
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    <p>"Please, have a seat, someone will be with you in a moment."</p><p>Anathema gave a sharp smile, and folded her arms as she waited, rather impatiently, in a coolly intimidating waiting area of a large London bank. In less than three minutes, an official-looking man in a smart suit arrived, beaming at her. "Ms Device, welcome. I understand you want access to your deposit box?" </p><p>"That's right, box three-two-seven," she agreed, handing over her ID. </p><p>He checked it briefly, and nodded politely. "Of course. Right this way."</p><p>Leading her through a series of doors, they headed to a large room with a wall of numbered boxes. The banker carefully selected box three-two-seven, removed it, and set it down on a polished table for Anathema to access. She braced herself. She didn't want to do this. She thought she'd turned her back on this part of her life for good.</p><p>The book was just as she remembered it, down to the last mark and dimple. Pulling it free, she brushed her hand over the cover. "Hello, old friend," she murmured reluctantly. </p><p>---</p><p>Well, if that wasn't the best damn coffee Tony had ever had in his entire life. He lay awake that night, thinking about that coffee. Something about it just made him feel... better. Much more so than any ordinary coffee bean. By far, the best coffee London had to offer. He'd need another cup of that tomorrow, just to get him through the day. </p><p> </p><p>Stepping into the traditionally grey drizzle of a London morning, he groaned. His hair might frizz. Tony often worried about this, but it never did. He supposed he was just particularly lucky when it came to those waves. </p><p>"Morning, Anthony!"</p><p>He nearly jumped out of his skin. Turning sharply, he saw a young woman leaning against a the wall of the building, arms folded in what she clearly considered to be a jaunty manner. Tony groaned. </p><p>"Not now, Ms Tanner, not now. For god's sake leave me alone, I haven't even had coffee yet!"</p><p>Ms Tanner, for her part, was unperturbed, and followed him down the street, almost bouncing on each step. "Oh, but I think every minute counts, don't you, Mr Vine? Especially as the next deal draws ever closer."</p><p>Tony rolled his eyes. She was a wannabe journalist at best, she had no concrete evidence. Still, it was concerning. Where exactly was she getting her tip-offs from?<br/>"There is no deal; there are no deals," he told her in his dullest and most monotone voice. "You're supposed to have evidence if you're going to make ridiculous accusations against someone's reputation." He sped up his face, hoping his long gait would soon leave her behind. </p><p>She was almost running beside him now. "Don't you worry about that, I'll have all the evidence I need after Friday."</p><p>Friday. She knew it was going down on Friday. Who the hell was squealing to her?! He stopped abruptly, turned, and glowered down at her. "Look here," he practically hissed. "There is no deal. Whatever you're suggesting, it's not happening. Not Friday, not ever. So go spend your time on actual honest journalism rather than being this utterly ridiculous STALKER."</p><p>For once, Ms Tanner faltered, and seemed to shrink back into herself for a moment, before pulling herself together and standing firm. "You can deny it all you like. But I'll find out eventually, you'll see." </p><p>Tony shook his head in disgust, and stormed away, people parting from the pavement as he made his way across the road and down the street. </p><p> </p><p>Once inside the coffee shop, he breathed what could be considered to be a sigh of relief. As soon as the door closed behind him, it was like stepping into an old world, a safe haven. That delectable smell of coffee had a slight complement of vanilla today, and the more bready scent of the baking made Tony assume the owner was baking scones. What was his name again? Featherby? Featherson...</p><p>"Ah! Back again, I see? Well I'm very pleased to see you! Same again? Americano, wasn't it?"</p><p>Good lord, how could anyone be that cheerful at such an early hour? Tony eyed him with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. "Yeah, thanks," he muttered, taking in the sight of Bow-tie, apron, messy hair and all. He really did look oddly familiar. Overtaken by a sudden urge to confide, Tony leaned over the counter on his forearms. Bow-tie looked slightly taken aback, but then approached the new, more intimate space with apparent enthusiasm. </p><p>"Your coffee is, frankly, the best coffee I ever had," Tony confessed quietly. "Best coffee for miles. Really. The coffee-est coffee. Works wonders."</p><p>Tony had, to his knowledge, never seen anyone beam as brightly as that baker-man did in that moment. "Oh thank you! It's an old-fashioned blend. I may not be able to work the coffee machine, but I do know how to tantalise the taste buds!"</p><p>That smile. Surely Tony knew that smile? Why was it so familiar? As ridiculous as it sounded, that smile seemed just as welcoming and homely as the whole place. "You really do seem so familiar, Mr... Feather... uh... weight?" he tried, moving back and leaning on the counter with his hip as casually as he could. He was terrible with names. He was particularly terrible with long names.</p><p>"Featherton," the baker announced. "Archibald Featherton."</p><p>Tony stared. Archibald Featherton?! Archibald? What sort of a name was that?! "Right, well, eh... Baker," he settled on eventually (Featherton seemed amused rather than offended), "If you hadn't just moved down from, where was it? Carlisle? I'd have sworn that I've seen your face time and again... somewhere..."</p><p>He frowned a little, and almost jumped out of his skin when a hand appeared between them, holding out his coffee, ready to go. "Here you are, sir! Have a good day!" Tony decided then and there that he did not like Patricia the barista.</p><p>His attention returned to the Baker, who was still eyeing him carefully, as though he could learn everything about him if he just looked closely enough. "Forgive me," he began, hesitating a little, "But you seem troubled. Are you alright? Is there anything I can do?"</p><p>Tony thought over the gallery, the deal, the journalist, the... would he call Haircut his 'boyfriend?' He wasn't sure. "Everything's fine," he lied, and he could tell himself that it was a bad one. The Baker wasn't convinced. </p><p>"I see," he hummed, brow furrowing deeply. "Well, if that 'fine' becomes a 'not fine', or even just 'a little less fine than before', you can always pop by. I have several lovely bottles of a delicious sauvignon simply going to waste on a dusty shelf..."</p><p>Tony arched a brow. "Are you asking me round to get drunk, Baker?" he asked, smirking a little despite himself. </p><p>Featherton floundered. "I-I-I... No, most certainly not!" he insisted. "I just mean... I'm here if you need to talk. I hate to see someone so obviously troubled. And... I do believe I understand what you mean. You seem so familiar to me..."</p><p>Tony's brow fell back down into place, but the amused smirk stayed firmly in place. "I...</p><p>/Have a boyfriend/. Not quite true. And a little premature.<br/>/Don't have time/. Not true. And he hated drinking alone. <br/>/Don't drink/. Definitely not true. See above.</p><p>"...I'll think about it," he settled on eventually, popping the lid off his coffee to blow it a little before taking his first sip. God, it was like paradise mixed with eight hours' sleep wrapped in silk. </p><p>The Baker seemed happy with that, and even happier when Tony made a deliberate show of taking one of the fancy little business cards from the pile on the counter, tucking it in his inside pocket as he left the little shop. The day outside seemed even drearier than before. </p><p>'My hair will frizz', he thought to himself once more. </p><p>It didn't. </p><p>---</p><p>There was a forgotten building on the corner of a busy Soho street. It sat lonely and abandoned, its windows boarded up, weeds growing nearly a foot high at the base of the brickwork. No light had been lit in this tired little shop for as long as anyone could remember, and the sign in the door resolutely stayed on 'closed'. People barely noticed it anymore, rushing past, busy with their business. </p><p>People had become so good at not noticing the place, that they didn't notice now, when one of the doors was left ajar, light filling the main room inside, though the electricity bill hadn't been paid in quite some time. </p><p>Two figures in smart, pale suits stared drily around the place. It was clearly once a bookshop, but now it was simply a shambles. It was rather unclear as to whether this was merely the state of things, or was due to the behaviour of the intruders. </p><p>"No," one said to the other. They made their way silently out into the street, leaving the door gaping behind them. They moved in a way that made it clear they wanted to blend in, but they blended in as much as coffee on a white shirt. </p><p>A pair of worn brown boots stepped up towards the open door. The person wearing them sighed, closed the door firmly with one hand, and followed the suits at a distance, a very obedient collie by their side, wagging his tail as happily as if he were herding sheep somewhere in the American countryside.</p><p>---</p><p>Jasmine cottage had truly become 'home' to Newt and Anathema. It hadn't taken much convincing to get Newt to move over, and with a little dip into the nest egg built over generations of accurate prophecies, Anathema had been easily able to purchase the little place she'd fallen in love with. Every time she cycled back to the charming little place, her heart swelled, and she found herself with the biggest smile on her face. That was, until today. </p><p>Checking the windows for any sign of her boyfriend, Anathema parked up her bicycle, pulled the carefully wrapped parcel from her basket, and headed inside.</p><p>She immediately found herself face to face with the one person she'd been looking out for, who was apparently on his way out. </p><p>"Going down to the chippy," he told her, an affectionate squeeze to her arm. "Want anything?"</p><p>"No, thanks," she grinned a little too widely. </p><p>Newt's gaze fell to the parcel. "What have you got there?"</p><p>The witch's mind whirred. "Uh, more research books, from my Mom," she insisted, hoping he couldn't see the lie through her smile. "She keeps sending them over."</p><p>Newt accepted this without question. "Ah, alright," he smiled, pressing a kiss to her cheek before passing her to the path. "Oh, there might be some more research papers or something inside, it's a parcel for you. Addressed to Mrs Pulsifer again," he turned to head out the gate, a little colour rising in his cheeks. "Someone clearly giving me a hint there..."</p><p>Anathema frowned, and rushed inside to find a familiarly shaped parcel on the kitchen table. Her heart sank. Setting down Agnes Nutter's book, she took to carefully opening the parcel labelled for 'Mrs Pulsifer'.  Her hand came up to her mouth to stop her gasp.</p><p>FURTHER NICE AND ACCURATE PROPHECIES OF AGNES NUTTER CONCERNING THE WORLDE THAT IS TO COM: YE SAGA CONTINUED. <br/>NEITHER HELL NOR HIGH WATER, NOR ANY AMOUNT OF FLAME YE CAST SHALL PREVENTE.</p><p>She knew. Agnes knew Anathema burned the new book. <br/>Of course she did.<br/>Agnes always knew.</p>
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